Clockwork Light
by continuityofsilver
Summary: The flashbacks go as quickly as they come, leaving Dean with more questions than answers. And Sam watches from the sidelines as his brother splits apart at the seams. Castiel's absence ripped a hole in the fabric of Dean's being, and Sam's the only one to blame.
1. Chapter One

There are words, fragments of syllables that float through his mind at the edge of subconsciousness. Strange, elusive memories that drift in and out of focus. He can see the vague shapes of sentences, of formless masses of darkness collecting in the corners of his eyelids. But when he attempts to push forward through the muddled haze of forgetfulness they disappear as quickly as they come, and he is left wondering whether they had been there at all.

Eyelids heavy with the threat of sleep, he curls into himself, drawing the frayed, scratchy sheets around his body. Light seeps through the cracks beneath his eyelashes; it seems Sam is still hard at work. The nights always end like this as they blur with the mornings.

Sometimes there pass whispers in the air that resound like familiar dreams in Dean's ears. An echoed laugh, the sound of lips forming a smile, the brush of skin against skin. He doesn't quite know what to make of it but he knows it draws the smallest beads of happiness from his otherwise numb disposition. Sometimes, if he's lucky, he will hear the whispers sweep past him in the air at night. And when he does he may feel the slightest memory of a heart beating fast against him and recall the feeling of holding something – no, some_one_ in his arms.

* * *

Sam's been flaunting a new app on his phone that shows the weather for the next seven days. Dean rolls his eyes and tells him if he needs to rely on the Internet to tell him what clothes to wear, he needs a medical examination. Even in the relative coolness of early morning Dean can tell the air conditioner is straining to reason with the rising temperature inside the motel room. He can hear it screaming in frustration as it keeps pumping cool air through the building.

Sam pulls up the sleeves of his coat. Dean glances down at his own and ponders grabbing a nicer, thicker one, but decides against it when Sam opens the door and a blast of humid heat tumbles in. The air conditioner whimpers in protest. The brothers share a look. Hair hanging limp with sweat and shoulders rolled in toward his chest, Sam already appears defeated. Black, wrinkled bags sag beneath his eyes; Dean guesses he stayed up most of the night researching. The heat is stifling, unforgiving. The day will be long, and the sun is young yet. With a sigh he pushes his younger brother out the door and closes it, double checking the lock behind them.

The florist shop sits at the corner of Acorn Street and Forthrock. It's a quaint little building, nestled in with a few other equally eccentric-looking venues. Old oaks tower above the sidewalks. Their branches hug the crumbling brick chimneys jutting out of the shops' rooftops. Sam pauses to squint and marvel at their splendor. Dean walks straight ahead with purpose, muttering under his breath at the scratchy, sticky warmth blossoming beneath the long black sleeves of his jacket. He has half a mind to ditch it right then and there and toss it into a nearby dumpster. But something tells him it would appear unprofessional. Perhaps he has never played a part in a movie or TV show, but he's been acting from the moment he was born.

Adjusting his tie, he pushes open the door to the shop. Bells jingle overhead to signal his entrance. Sam walks in close behind him and shuts the door carefully.

The scents hit them all at once, mixing in not unpleasant ways. All the colors and vibrant, abstract shapes seem exotic and fantastical. Through the vague, misty haze of greenhouse warmth descending quickly upon them, Dean can see a young woman sitting at the counter. Long, manicured nails dig into the cover of a supermarket romance novel. They're painted as red as the lipstick smoothed on her lips. A cascade of shiny black hair is swept back into a hairtie on the top of her head.

She flips a page and a smile sneaks onto her face. She has a secretive, playful allure; Dean glances at Sam and waggles his eyebrows. Sam pointedly ignores him and pushes through the leaves and petals crowding the floor.

They approach the counter, but the woman takes no notice. Upon looking closer, Dean notices small earbuds protruding from her ears. He smiles and clears his throat.

"Excuse me, I'm Agent Bud and this is, uh, Agent Holly; we're with the FBI. If we could just ask you a few questions…" His speech trails off when he realizes she still has taken no heed of their presence. He works up to clear his throat again, but Sam cuts him off.

Sam taps her lightly on the shoulder and she shrieks, throwing the book to the floor. Frantically she tries to collect herself. She pulls the headphones violently from her ears and jumps to her feet. "I'm so sorry!" she gasps. "I am so, so sorry. How can I help you gentlemen today?" She gives them both a once-over, then continues, "Ah, I take it you're here to pick up the wedding bouquet! It's in the back, just give me two seconds and I'll—"

"Actually," Sam interrupts, "we're with the FBI." He flashes his fake badge.

"We're also not…together; I don't swing that way," Dean chimes in, stepping forward.

The woman winks at him knowingly, then turns back to Sam. "Oh, my mistake. The FBI? This isn't about Miranda Halley, is it? Let me just say, I knew her from high school and she was one of the kindest people I've ever met."

"So she wasn't the kind to have enemies?" asks Sam.

The woman furrows her eyebrows. "I…I'm sorry, I thought she came down with salmonella? From eating some bad alfalfa sprouts or something?"

"Right." Sam beckons for her to come out from behind the counter. "If you wouldn't mind, we have a few more questions to ask. Is there any place we might be able to sit down?"

The woman nods and shows them through a door marked "Employees Only". Comfortable-looking couches sit on either side of the room, and a small kitchenette is set up in the corner. In the dead center, on a rather large coffee table, sits an enormous and grotesque-looking specimen of presumably exotic fauna. Dean eyes it warily and swears he sees it eyeing him back. With a small shiver he sinks into one of the couches next to Sam. The woman sits opposite them, worry lining her face.

"So your name is?" Sam prompts.

"Sally."

"Right. So, Sally, you said you knew Miranda from high school?"

"Yes, that's right. I remember we were partners in tennis and we lived a few blocks away from each other. I knew her family fairly well, too, and…"

Dean's mind is wandering, wandering back to the hallucinations of last night. How unusually free he felt, how at ease. It was a feeling he seldom felt, a feeling of being appreciated. The job comes with many condescending glares and few thanks. Appreciation isn't something he commonly has the privilege to experience. But in those dreams he'd felt something far deeper than all his one-night stands, deeper even than what he'd felt with Lisa. It was something like a profound bond of deepest trust and…was it…love?

He shakes the notion from his mind. This shell of a body is incapable of loving or being loved. Even with Sam beside him he is alone, lost within the mazes in his mind. Those dreams were nothing more than vacant fantasies. Illusions of emotion. He knows more than anyone that some people simply cannot be loved. And he has, too, learned to accept that in himself.

The interview passes without incident. They leave the shop with little to go on. Sam keeps flipping through the pages of his notebook, trying to piece something together, force the pieces to fit somehow. But there is no sudden moment of inspiration, no well-timed coincidence to spark even the ghost of an idea.

The sun perches high in the sky, heating the humid air to near boiling. The brothers both end up ditching their coats and button-up shirts and walking down the street in just their slacks and white tees. The world around them moves sluggishly; even hardcore spandex runners stop to walk and catch their breath.

Sam's blabbing about some case he read about in Dad's journal detailing an unusual autumn heatwave that corresponded with some random deaths. Dean's just thinking about that bar he saw when they were driving in, the one advertising ice cold beer. He's just about to suggest a visit when out of the corner of his eye he catches something strange.

"Sam!" he hisses, tugging at his brother. He nods toward a bench across the street. Sam looks over and rolls his eyes.

"What, Dean."

"How many guys do you know who would wear a damn trenchcoat on a hundred-degree day? I don't know 'bout you, but that smells a little fishy to me."

Sam throws his brother a look. "What the hell are you talking about?" he snorts. "I don't know _anyone_ like that. And anyway, how exactly is that relevant right this second?"

Dean grabs him and points toward the bench. "You take a good look at that, and then you look me in the eyes and you tell me that doesn't seem just a little bit off to you."

"Um, okay, that doesn't seem off to me. At all. Dean, _it's a bench. _I don't see any guy or any other…beings."

"Yeah, okay, ha-ha, funny. Actually, no; Jesus, Sam, that's not even funny."

"I'm serious, Dean." Sam looks at him quizzically, then shakes his head. "I don't know what _you're _going on about. There's no one there, okay?"

Dean glances back toward the bench. The man in the trenchcoat takes another large bite of a fast-food burger and slurps his milkshake. His eyes are downcast; Dean would almost venture to say they look sad. Stubble dots his chin; there are bags beneath his eyes. _For a man_, Dean catches himself thinking, _he's relatively handsome._

His eyes flare. What the hell? Does the guy seem a little bit…familiar? Perhaps he's seen him in a dream or something, or passed him on the street before. But if he's a stranger, why does Dean's chest tighten when the man looks up and their eyes lock for just a second?

"Yeah, sorry," Dean mumbles, glancing away. "I guess the heat's really gettting to me, huh?" He forces a laugh. Sam shakes his head and keeps walking.

"Yeah, well. Let's get back to the room and see if we can't find anything else on this Miranda girl."

Reluctantly Dean trudges on a few steps behind his brother. His mind wanders far from the case now, back to the man on the bench. What was Sam playing at? Had he simply been pulling Dean's leg, or had Sam really not seen the man? He'd been kind of hard to miss, as such a heavy trenchcoat was rather conspicuous especially on a day like this. And Dean still can't shake the feeling he's seen the man before.


	2. Chapter Two

They arrive at the motel with little incident. Sam sulks at the computer, poring over the town's history. Dean collapses onto the bed with a porn mag. Life cycles on.

For the first time in his life, Dean skips lunch. His stomach folds itself into knots. He feels strangely nauseous. Not even the porn can hold his attention for long. When Sam announces he's going out for a burger and shake, Dean just shudders and mumbles something about a stomachache. His entire body is made of shivers. It's as though he's suddenly possessed by some unseen force. He had no control over his body whatsoever. Not wanting Sam to ask questions, he waits for his brother to close the door behind him and then bolts to the bathroom.

He catches his reflection in the mirror. It could not be more alien. His face is a sweaty mess of pale, sagging skin. His eyes are sunken, tinged with darkness. There's an insanity in his breath that wasn't there before. A wildness to his step. He feels oddly compelled to do something rash.

Panic floods his lungs like ice water crushing his ribcage. He sees the primal rage burn in his irises. A tiny voice nudges him forward, ringing out through the chaos in his mind. _Rest. _

He's pulling out his hair, he's falling to the floor. There's a bottle of cough syrup ajar on the ledge of the sink. What if…?

Nothing means anything anymore. He's a hunter; that's his purpose. But is he truly a hunter if he's just going through the motions like a robot? Research, salt and burn, repeat. His heart's long gone. _Saving people, hunting things. The family business. _Save and hunt. Save and hunt. _Who saves me? No one pities the hunter. No one knows his work. _Is it selfish to want a little appreciation once in awhile? He was never the smart one, never the responsible one; just the brute force behind Sam's brains, the soldier, slave to his father's mind-control.

He's worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Someone's screaming the word in his brain, louder and louder and louder.

In a split second the cough syrup is in his hand and he's pouring capful after capful down his throat. He cannot possibly fight this force. It is the force of memory, as though he's seeing the same scene playing out again and nothing he can do will change the outcome. The haze of near-sleep clouds his senses. He's choking, he's falling, he's dulling the pain and finds himself holding his gun to his mouth with shaking hands –

Out of the near-darkness flashes a long-lost memory. He's been here before; he _has_ seen this. This place, the same yet different. This bottle of medicine, this haze. It hits him in rocking waves of sickness. He tugs at the memory until it's in reach and he lets himself fall into the calm embrace of unconsciousness.

* * *

_Just sleep. You will wake and be fine. You will feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing but the darkness of the beyond. Night will lull you away; you will sail on to the unknown and think little of it. In death you will find an eternal peace. You will be one of the lucky ones. _

_Dean's heartbeat became softer, calmer. It shook his tarnished ribcage. The words Castiel once forged into his bones burned with dull intensity. His breathing was hollowed and fleeting. He could feel the edge of death slinking closer, closer now through the swirling darkness behind his closed eyelids. It was as easy as falling asleep. Just jump into the welcoming arms of the abyss; just float on into eternity. _

_But there was a voice. A voice, distant and frantic. Calling to him. Splitting through the haze of slumber. Words folded themselves into light which echoed against his bones. He felt burning hands grabbing at his skin, threatening to pull him back to life. Distressed, he fought. His resistance was met with an even greater power: hope. Someone above was pouring hope into his chest in the vain belief that it would revive him. Give him renewed purpose._

_Someone whispering breath against his skin. Someone speaking with fingers drawn across his lips. Someone holding his face; the warmth of sadness ensnaring his soul. _

_He could fight no longer; he could run from life no more. His fate was above, not below in death. There had to be reason somewhere. He just had to find it._

_Feeble fingers stretched toward the air. Lips devoid of language called for help. Blurry eyes struggled open. The world began to solidify around him. The fogged mirror. The running water of the shower. The cough medicine splattered across the floor. _

_Cas's stubble, the warmth of his closeness. That faint smell of sweet dust and apple cores so crisp, so familiar, wafting vaguely into his nostrils. Cas's smile spoke of sadness, of relief. _

_"Hello, Dean," he murmured, voice catching with the threat of tears. He placed a hand on Dean's face._

_Dean let his head flop back onto the floor. He felt sick with a cold sort of fear and regret. "Did I really…" His voice trailed into nothing; Cas understood._

_"Don't worry, Dean. Everything's okay now. …You look awful."_

_"Thanks for the reassurance, buddy." He tried to sit up, but Cas slid his hand onto Dean's shoulder. _

_"You shouldn't move. Your body is still too weak. I'm sorry I couldn't quite revive it completely; you allowed me very little time…"_

_Dean listened to Cas's repeated apologies and disclaimers. He felt foolish, ungrateful. The regret in his chest grew heavier. How could he have thrown away this life he'd tried so long to protect? How could he leave Sam to fend for himself when he'd promised to protect him forever? But most of all, Cas…_

_"…just don't understand what happened. I think you must have misread the label on the bottle. It's only one capful, Dean. You should really be more careful. And come to think of it, I'm not sure why you were taking cough syrup anyway. You aren't sick, are you? I haven't heard you coughing a lot. You don't sound sick, anyway. And if you were –"_

_"Shut up, Cas." Dean grabbed hold of the angel's neck and pulled him down close to his face. Their noses rubbed against each other. A deep red blossomed in Cas's cheeks._

_"Is this a customary way to, quote, 'shut me up' unquote?" he asked._

_Dean closed his eyes. "No," he said. "But this is."_

_Heart pounding in his chest, he brought his lips to Cas's so they barely brushed. Startled, Cas's eyes flew open. He pressed harder into Dean, savoring the sensation. _

_But a pang of fear hit Dean in the stomach. Abruptly he pulled away and pushed Cas off of him. "Sorry," he panted. "That was just a mistake, man. Forget about it."_

_"I don't understand, Dean. It worked. You 'shut me up'."_

_A broad smile stretched across Dean's face and he laughed feebly, placing a hand on Cas's shoulder and pushing himself up. Renewed reason flowed within him, from the curious electricity lingering on his lips. _

_He would not forsake this life. Not yet. _


End file.
